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CHRISTMAS
AT THE AIRPORT
'Twas the night before Christmas, and
out on the ramp, |
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Not an airplane was stirring, not even a
Champ. |
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The aircraft were fastened to tie downs
with care, |
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In hopes that come morning, they all
would be there. |
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The fuel trucks were nestled, all snug
in their spots, |
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With gusts from two-forty, at 39 knots. |
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I slumped at the fuel desk, now finally
caught up, |
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And settled down comfortably, resting my
butt. |
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When the radio lit up with noise and
with chatter, |
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I turned up the scanner to see what was
the matter. |
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He called his position, no room for
denial, |
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"St. Nicholas One, turnin' left onto
final."
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And what to my wondering eyes should
appear, |
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But a Rutan-built sleigh, with eight
Rotax Reindeer! |
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A voice clearly heard over static and
snow, |
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Called for clearance to land at the
airport below. |
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He barked his transmission so lively and
quick, |
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I
ran to the panel to turn up the lights,
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I'd have sworn that the call sign he
used was "St. Nick". |
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The better to welcome this magical
flight. |
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With vectors to final, down the
glideslope he came,
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As he passed all fixes, he called them
by name: |
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"Now Ringo! Now Tolga! Now Trini and
Bacin! |
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On Comet! On Cupid!" What pills was he
takin'? |
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While the controller was sittin', and
scratchin' his head, |
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He phoned to my office, and I heard it
with dread, |
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The message he left was both urgent and
dour: |
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"When Santa pulls in, have him please
call the tower." |
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He landed like silk, with the sled
runners sparking, |
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Then I heard "Left at Charlie," and
"Taxi to parking. |
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" He slowed to a taxi, turned off of
three-oh |
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And stopped on the ramp with a "Ho,
ho-ho-ho..." |
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He stepped out of the sleigh, but before
he could talk, |
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I
ran out to meet him with my best set of
chocks. |
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His red helmet and goggles were covered
with frost |
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And his beard was all blackened from
Reindeer exhaust. |
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His breath smelled like peppermint, gone
slightly stale, |
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And he puffed on a pipe, but he didn't
inhale. |
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His cheeks were all rosy and jiggled
like jelly, |
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His boots were as black as a crop
duster's belly. |
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He was chubby and plump, in his suit of
bright red, |
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And he asked me to "fill it, with
hundred low-lead. |
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" He came dashing in from the
snow-covered pump, |
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I knew he was anxious for drainin' the
sump. |
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I spoke not a word, but went straight to
my work, |
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And I filled up the sleigh, but I
spilled like a jerk. |
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He came out of the restroom, and sighed
in relief, |
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Then he picked up a phone for a Flight
Service brief. |
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And I thought as he silently scribed in
his log, |
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These reindeer could land in an
eighth-mile fog. |
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He completed his pre-flight, from the
front to the rear, |
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Then he put on his headset, and I heard
him yell, "Clear!" |
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And laying a finger on his push-to-talk,
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He called up the tower for clearance and
squawk. |
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"Take taxiway Charlie, the southbound
direction, |
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Turn right three-two-zero at pilot's
discretion" |
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He sped down the runway, the best of the
best, |
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"Your traffic's a Grumman, inbound from
the west." |
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Then I heard him proclaim, as he climbed
thru the night, |
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"Merry Christmas to all!..... I have
traffic in sight." |
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THIS WAS WRITTEN BY THE WIFE OF A
RETIRED |
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EASTERN AIRLINES PILOT |
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